


Judgement Known To Fail

by softcronch



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, UST, nick's got a big gay crush, self deprecation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-03 21:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11540595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcronch/pseuds/softcronch
Summary: Nick's been harboring his crush on Griffin for, oh, what feels like forever. When a weekend stay under questionable pretenses confirms that he won't be able to just write these feelings off, that means he should probably do something about it? Or, more likely, he'll just keep on suffering in silence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah yeah, we get it, some people out there can't tell the diff between fanfiction and reality, but this is RPF fanfic and it's meant to be harmless. If you've got beef with it, meet me in the playground and 4pm and we'll fist fight. 
> 
> (title stolen from the song The Gardener by The Tallest Man on Earth, because I'm unoriginal and also I listened to it a lot while writing)
> 
> Please enjoy this tiny first chapter! There will be more to come!

Nick gets the call on Monday. By that night, he’s bought plane tickets. Thursday morning finds him yawning behind his fist in the backseat of an Uber, trying to blink his phone into focus. 

**Griffin:** _when does your flight land, again?_

Nick is about to razz him for having to ask, but as he begins to type out a sassy, _“you don’t know??? thought u cared about me dude,”_ he realizes he’s got no fucking clue. He clicks over to his itinerary and scans it quickly. 

**Nick:** _should land @ like noon, your time?_

**Nick:** _time zones are weird_

All Nick knows right now is that it’s early as fuck, and the four hours of sleep he managed to scoop up last night just aren’t cutting it. He tells himself that he’s just anxious about flying, but that’s mostly horse shit; he flies all the time. The novelty of it faded almost completely after his first year with Polygon. The anxiety he’s feeling _now_ isn’t any more or less severe than the anxiety he feels on a day-to-day basis, really. He tells himself he’s just excited to get to get away for a few days of actual, honest to god vacation time. It’s rare he’s not travelling for work. 

The call he got on Monday came from a number he hadn’t recognized at first, but he answered it, just in case. His buddy from college, a guy named Rich, said he’d just gotten a new phone (which explained the weird number) and, more importantly, a new house. Rich lived in Austin now, and he wanted to know if Nick would come out for the housewarming party. Nick hasn’t seen Rich in ages. They talk sometimes, play rounds of Rocket League together, which Nick supposes is as good a bonding experience as anything. He accepted the invitation immediately. As soon as the call was over, he texted Griffin. _Hey bud, you busy this weekend?_ Both Griffin’s time and his couch were uncommitted. Nick booked his flight with a smile on his face. 

They’re about five minutes from the airport now. Well, in theory. They may not be in LA, but the traffic is still murder, and the car slows to a stop behind a row of people waiting to exit the freeway. 

**Griffin:** _cool beans_  
Nick sends three thumbs up emojis, then adds:  
**Nick:** _here’s a question. why the fuckk did i decide to fly out before the sun is even up_

The Uber driver isn’t trying to chat much, which is a godsend. Nick sets his phone face down on his thigh and lets his head thump against the window. He feels a little stupid for complaining, making it sound like he doesn’t want to be getting on a plane at the ass crack of dawn when honestly he wouldn’t rather be doing anything else, or going anywhere else, in the whole world. Oh well. Can’t unsend a text. Anyway, Griffin will understand; he’s an even bigger whiner than Nick when he’s tired. 

Nick’s eyes, sticky and sore from exhaustion, object to closing at first. He feels them burn but keeps his lids squeezed shut until it subsides. His eyes always get dry as fuck when he’s tired. _Why didn’t I just wear my glasses?_ Probably the same reason he chose to wear skinny jeans instead of sweats. Probably the same reason he gave his hair the same amount of meticulous tending-to that he would before a date.  


He’s hopeless. And, surely, obvious.

His phone remains silent for the rest of the drive. Nick is a little disappointed at the loss of a distraction, but supposes it’s fair that Griffin most likely fell back asleep. It’s gotta be like seven in the morning, there. Griffin likely woke himself up from some nightmare that he overslept and left Nick waiting at the airport for a full week. That sounds like a Griffin thing. Working himself up over nothing. Nick smiles just a little to himself, picturing it. 

He’s seen half-asleep Griffin before. Messy hair and his left cheek red, imprinted with the creases of his pillow case, no glasses on so you can see just how long his eyelashes are. His voice is always a bit lower in the morning, too. Gruffer. Like his throat is a little gummy. The last time they’d shared a hotel room, they’d laid in their respective beds and chatted before starting the day. Nick had pretended to scroll through Twitter, but the sight of Griffin sleep-ruffled and tangled in his bedsheets was so much more enticing. The way he’d stretched out his limbs, body bowing with a yawn so far that he’d cleared a few inches off the mattress. Nick had prayed the sheets would slip, even a fraction. What would that view have been like? God. 

Nick forces his eyes open and sits up straight again. Both hands scrub hard over his face. A familiar feeling of bitter sickness settles in his stomach. _Why the hell am I like this?_  


Thankfully the driver chooses that moment to ask for confirmation on Nick’s terminal. As he leans forward to help the guy navigate airport signage, the image of early morning Griffin fades to the back of Nick’s mind. If he’s honest with himself, he knows it won’t sit idly there for long.

 

Griffin sends a reply right as Nick is settling into a seat outside the gate. 

**Griffin:** _we both know ur a glutton for punishment, nicolas ;)_

Nick swallows hard and switches his phone off for good. 

 

His carry-on requires a bit of shoving to meet the flight attendant’s standards of “fitting under the chair,” but Nick complies and rests back in his seat once his things are secured and ready for take-off. He’s got the aisle, which, yeah runs the risk of being hip-checked by every passenger who needs to use the bathroom, but at least on the aisle seat he won’t feel as claustrophobic. Pulling his earbuds from his pocket, he settles in with a spotify playlist and doesn’t even pretend to listen to the safety demo. 

As soon as his eyes close again, he’s thinking about Griffin. 

It’s not like he doesn’t know that this crush he’s harboring is doomed to fail. Actually, fuck, he’d take failure at this point, rather than what his feelings will most realistically culminate in, which is Absolutely Nothing. To fail would mean confessing his feelings and being turned down. To fail would mean a definitive end to constantly picturing some impossible future in which he no longer has to admire Griffin’s soft, sleeping face from the next bed over, but instead has the privilege of holding him, of waking him up with aimless trails of kisses... 

_Jesus. Get your shit together._

He draws in a slow breath and releases it in a soft huff through the nose, but it does nothing to alleviate the queasy feeling of guilt in his stomach. He’s disgusting. Harboring this crush is just... _wrong_. It’s a breach of trust; all this time he spends talking to Griffin, both professionally and socially. In a way, it’s all been a lie. He can feel himself siphoning images of Griffin each time they’re together, saving his cheeky smiles and charming giggles to the vault in the back of his mind. No way Griffin would be so open with him if he knew the truth. 

Nick clenches his fists, feels his nails dig into his palms. The people around him probably think he’s a nervous flier. He definitely looks like he’s seconds away from some kind of fit. So long as no one tries to actually talk to him, though, he’s fine with them thinking whatever the fuck they want. 

Despite the early hour and his previous numbing exhaustion, it takes Nick nearly half of the flight to fall asleep. He winds up watching the in-flight movie - just watching, not listening - and, god, he’s definitely in hell. After a series of cycles, in which he closes his eyes and swears not to ingest another second of _Trolls 2_ , he finds himself peeking at the screen again soon enough. Feeling a little delirious, he has a chuckle to himself. He’s already penning a mental summary of _Trolls 2_ that he can relate to Griffin once he’s in Austin. The movie’s like a technicolor fever dream. It’s awful. Griffin will find it hilarious. 

That’ll be worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick arrives in Austin. They get Arby's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added a few more tags, because this fic is getting way moody way fast. they say to write what you know, right?
> 
> hey this is rpf, nobody freak out

Nick’s never actually seen  _ Love Actually _ (it seems like the sort of movie you’re legally obligated to watch while wine-drunk and drafting texts to your ex [or, even worse, texts to your coworker and good buddy whom you’d also like to kiss on the mouth]), but he’s seen gifsets of  _ Love Actually _ , if that counts for anything. Aside from that bit with the guy showing poster boards to Kiera Knightly, Nick most often comes across the series of shots that he’s come to understand open up the movie. All hugging and smooching and Hugh Grant’s sappy opening monologue. Stuff about airports being a good cross-section of the human experience. Or something. Tumblr isn’t the best resource for film insight. At least, his dashboard isn’t. 

He’s not actively thinking about  _ Love Actually _ or Hugh Grant or any of that, as he trudges along with his carry-on, into the frenzy that is the Austin-Bergstrom arrival gate. Really all that’s on his mind is how completely he wasted his efforts this morning, in giving even a single shit about how his hair looks. He plans to use Griffin’s shower, like, the minute they arrive. 

He side steps to avoid the flailing limbs of several children as they rush to embrace who he assumes is their mother - or maybe big sister, whatever, Nick just doesn’t want to step on anybody - and he grips his cellphone a little tighter. By the time he squeaks out a reactionary, “‘scuse me,” he’s already taken several steps past the roadblock that is someone else’s group hug. They probably didn’t hear him.

He keeps forgetting that it’s not still the unholy early hours of morning. There’s sun coming in through the windows, and there’s people all around, and despite the air conditioning’s best efforts, he’s already feeling a cool patch of sweat blooming at his mid back. He can’t take more than a step or two without being jostled off track by someone who’s  _ definitely _ got somewhere more pressing to be. Keeping his head down proves ineffective, because it leaves him vulnerable to wayward elbows and shoulders. God, is he glad he didn’t check a bag. His hands feel clammy even considering the swarm that’s surely amassed around the conveyer belts, one floor down. 

Somebody bumps into him from behind and keeps on running past. Nick only barely manages to retrieve his phone from the floor without being kneed in the face. 

His crowd anxiety has officially reached max tolerance. Hugh Grant never mentioned  _ this _ very real human experience, that’s for fucking sure. Fuck Hugh Grant. Fuck airports. Nick’s eyes dart around for any square foot of space in which he might stand and collect himself, but then he hears his name. 

There’s a smile in that voice. It rings in Nick’s ears. 

The vat of anxiety in his chest vents just the slightest bit of pressure. 

Nick whips his head around, and he smiles.

“Griffin!” he calls back. A half laugh intrudes on his shout, then snowballs into a very real giggle as he pushes his way closer, through the stream of people. “You look like somebody’s dad.” 

Bless him, Griffin has found a less heavily trafficked spot in which to wait for him. They tuck over to the side of the hallway and Nick drops his bag at his feet, rather than settle for a lame one-armed hug. 

Griffin laughs in his ear, too loud, but the good kind. He squeezes both arms around Nick’s middle, and Nick squeezes around his shoulders. They press close. Nick holds onto a breath. But in the good way. “Shut the fuck up,” Griffin says. He gives Nick an abrupt clap on the back before pulling away. Nick lets the breath out, and then he’s laughing again.

“Seriously, man, cargo shorts?” Nick snorts. Maybe it’s not the sort of greeting that Hugh would approve of, but what’s he supposed to do?  _ Not _ heckle Griffin about his fashion sense? 

Griffin’s face pinches into a frown, one that quickly gives way to another grin.  He shoves both hands into the lowermost pockets of his khaki shorts and pulls a face that could only have come from an abundance of experience in imitating Clint Mcelroy. It’s pretty spot-on, Nick will give him that. The hunch, especially, that his hand placement necessitates, really cinches the character. 

“Got some gum in here somewhere for ya, kiddo,” Griffin croaks. He’s inexplicably adopted a Cockney accent. Like a chain smoking Cockney grandpa. Nick can already feel his side ache from giggles. “Pulled it out of a baseball card in 1965, been savin’ it just for you.” He continues making a show of rooting around in his big dumb pockets, smacking his lips and making just the worst throat clearing sounds. Nick only ever feels this combination of charmed and disturbed when he’s with Griffin.

“Okay, okay,” Nick chokes out, a hand over his laughing mouth. “If you actually pull some fucking nasty gum from your pockets right now, I’m going back to California.” 

Griffin doesn’t let up on the grandpa gag just yet, which makes the suggestive wag of his brows and the big dumb smirk on his face even more unsettling. “Oh, kiddo, you’re not even ready for how dirty this shit is.” To his credit, the Cockney accent doesn’t waver. 

Nick erupts with a single yelp of laughter and throws both arms in the air. “Well, bye Griffin! Bye forever! I’m going to the moon now.” He hoists up his bag, throwing it over his shoulder. His foot doesn’t even land the step away from Griffin that he’d meant to take before a hand clasps onto his arm. When he looks back, Griffin’s standing normal again, with his normal grin and his normal khakis and those totally normal not cute not endearing not completely mind-boggling lashes batting at him from behind his glasses. They look at each other for a moment. 

“You can literally never call me kiddo again,” Nick says. 

“Deal,” Griffin returns. “Hey, wanna get some shitty fast food and regret it later?” 

Nick straightens up, adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “Fuck yeah.” 

 

Nick had been talking to Griffin online for a little while before they ever even shook hands. Griffin had been a voice (or, sometimes he’d been some ridiculous pictures on Google images, but when Nick finally met him for real the goatee was long gone.) Griffin had been a voice, without mannerisms or facial expressions, without a physical  _ presence _ . In some obscure way, Nick began to forget that Griffin was a real person. Griffin was just a voice, and yet he still managed to enamor Nick completely.

That first time they’d met, Nick hadn’t been prepared for what all that stuff, what seeing Griffin for the person he _ is  _ rather than the personality he portrays, would do to him. How it would effect him. How it would only further solidify his crush. How he’d sit there in that conference room during a day of meetings and watch Griffin’s hands flutter about while he spoke, or how he’d catch the subtle way in which Griffin would readjust his t-shirt, always making sure it wasn’t clinging too tightly to the body underneath, with such a quick tug and shimmy that Nick doubted anyone else in the room even took note. Everything he saw of Griffin during that first meeting was charming and  _ real _ , so real that Nick felt his stomach drop, felt all his daydreams sink to the unforgiving bedrock of reality.

It was at that first meeting that he began to understand that he would never, ever, be good enough for Griffin Mcelroy. 

 

The only place with a drive-thru en route to Griffin’s place happens to be an Arby’s. Nick vehemently objects to the very idea of putting  _ anything _ the establishment has to offer into his body, but, well, Griffin’s behind the wheel and he  _ is _ , after all, Griffin. They make jokes about “swallowing” one’s pride while waiting in line. 

By the time they reach Griff’s apartment building, the whole car smells like roast beef. It’s pretty awful. The moment Nick comments on it, he hears the click of the child-locked windows, and he’s forced to suffer the reality that the passenger side window will not for the love of God roll down. He threatens to eject himself back to California, to the moon, to the Sun Chips place, just  _ anywhere _ , to get away from beef stench. 

Griffin goes teary-eyed with laughter. Absolutely guffawing with his face all scrunched, his red cheeks swallowing up his eyes and putting creases at the corners. The only words he’s able to wheeze for several minutes are, “ _ Beef stench, Nicolas?! _ ”

As they’re climbing out of the car, Nick catches sight of himself in the side mirror. The joke is over by then,  _ has _ been over for about three blocks, but he’s still sporting this smile; it’s not the first time he’s seen this smile, yet that brief glimpse follows him all the way up the stairs. 

Nick knows himself about as well as he knows that smile. He’s seen it creep up on him whenever he’s around people he respects. Whenever he makes a joke that earns a laugh. Any validation, any recognition, any praise. Even with Griffin.  _ Especially  _ with Griffin. 

Nick knows he cares too much about what people think. Especially about what Griffin thinks. 

 

Nick hasn’t said much of anything since “Beef stench,” which, Jesus, imagine if  _ those _ had been his last words, if Griffin’s giggle fit had ended with them sailing into a ditch. He says as much to Griffin while they make their way through their shitty Arby’s sandwiches. Griffin laughs once around a mouthful of roast beef and cheese, gives Nick this look from across the coffee table that  _ should _ be nothing but a reaffirmation that Griffin is glad he’s here, that they’re friends, that everything’s great. 

Nick wipes away a familiar smile with a swipe of his napkin, and looks away.

They crumple their wrappers into little balls once they’ve finished, and Griffin goes into the kitchen to pitch the trash. Nick watches him go, when he should be answering a text from his friend, Rich. The guy he’s actually  _ supposed _ to be in Austin to see. He’s gonna have to bring Rich some flowers, or something. And a card that reads, ‘ _ Sorry I used you as a ruse to score some face time with my coworker and his cute, stupid face! _ ’ That’ll make a nice housewarming gift.

“Want another beer?” 

Nick looks up to see Griffin leaning around the doorway, holding up another pair of dark brown bottles. Some kind of local IPA. Nick’s polished one off already. Had to, if that roast beef was ever going to stay down.

“Mm, actually, I should probably shower before I, like, settle in,” Nick replies. “You mind?” 

Griffin rests one bottle under his arm as he twists off the cap of the other. “Go to it, bud,” he says. “Just, you gotta know that even a shower’s not gonna wash away all the Beef Sin you just did.” 

Nick laughs, enjoying the familiarity of bantering with Griffin, and gets to his feet. “Gonna be prayin’ about it all week,” he agrees. His hair flaps in his face as he nods. It’s greasy from styling gel and sweat, because Texas is dumb and summer is horrible. 

Griffin chuckles. He swigs his beer, then jerks his head for Nick to follow him down the hall. The apartment is relatively small, consisting of the living room, kitchen, bathroom, Griffin’s office, and the master bedroom, but Griffin seems reluctant to let even a square inch of space be taken up by silence. While Nick trails behind, his bag once again on his shoulder, Griffin goes through the typical house tour gambit, pointing out what’s where and explaining that Nick should make himself at home. He stops on his way to the linen closet in order to scoop up Cecil, who’s been whining for attention since they stepped through the door. 

Nick stands half in the bathroom, half in the hallway, humoring Griffin by scratching Cecil’s ears while Griffin asks the cat about his day. Cecil only meows plaintively. 

Finally Cecil has enough of their attention and abruptly wriggles himself free, springing off Griffin’s chest before slinking down the hall and out of sight. Unbothered, Griffin brushes a few hairs from his shirt. Nick is just watching him, like an idiot. 

Suddenly aware that he hasn’t been saying anything, Nick feels the urge to say  _ something _ , if only to alleviate the awkwardness that’s definitely only a thing in his own head. 

“Sorry,” he blurts. Griffin frowns, purses his lips slightly. Nick scrubs a hand through his hair and presses on. “Just, sorry, I dunno. Hah. I’m wiped from the plane ride. I think I blew all my fun-juice on the ride over.” 

“Beef stench,” Griffin adds, with a nod like that all makes perfect sense. 

Nick’s chuckle feels tenuous at best. “Exactly.” His hand drops to his side, but knocks against the doorframe on the way down. If Griffin notices, he doesn’t comment. 

“Well, it’s whatever. Get your shower on and, it’s cool, we can just hang out.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. It’s like a fuckin’ billion degrees out anyway,” Griffin snorts. “Moving is stupid. Yknow what we don’t do enough of? Play video games. We can just do that.” His smile is warm and earnest, and all for Nick.

Griffin’s got to know what effect he has. Not just on Nick, but on people. 

Surely, Nick’s not the only one who catches a sincere smile from Griffin Mcelroy and feels a thump in their chest. But the good kind of thump. Not the frantic thumps that Nick’s used to, in crowds or in new places or at home alone with just himself and his whirlwind thoughts. It’s not calm, exactly, that Griffin gives him. It’s that vent of steam, that bit of breathing room that keeps his vat of anxiety from going nuclear. 

Jesus fuck. Nick’s way too in his own head. 

He can have a minor mental breakdown when he’s back in San Fran. He has to savor the next five days, before Griffin goes back to being just a voice, and Nick’s back to picking at the scraps left over in his mental spank bank.

Griffin was definitely right. A shower just won’t be enough.


End file.
